


In Fact

by FallenFrisk



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Foreshadowing, MAJOR GORE, Major Character Injury, Other, Read Once Get 2 Headcanons Free!, Revenge, mayb im Just A Baby Though, seriously its gross...... i felt gross writin it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:20:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenFrisk/pseuds/FallenFrisk
Summary: Nothing is sweeter than needed revenge.In fact, I don't want to be friends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> * Based off the song "In Fact (Carousel Remix)" by Gregory and the Hawk.  
> * Headcanons applied here and there.  
> * This is my first story here, so it may not be the best, but let it be known that I tried.
> 
> EDIT ; APRIL 15TH, 2017: This really isn't my proudest work. I might have to rewrite this one day.

He wouldn't die. Not like this, and certainly not from the likes of Tom. Not from one badly aimed blade. Not from something so stupid as his own view blocked by his ego.  
It felt like a million blades ripping through his palms and arm - hot or cold, he couldn't focus long enough to tell - as he pushed the scalding metal off of his torso; his body shrunk and bloodied under the smoking rubble. He blended in well with the scarlet chunks of metal and wires, and hissed. His hands, shredded as they were, didn't want to touch much of anything at all and therefore made trying to escape the robot head needlessly complicated. However, assuming he wouldn't die from bleeding out, if he remained inside of the cockpit he'd die of heatstroke or from inhaling too much smoke and ash.

 

He was initially hesitant of fully leaving the pile of rubble - not because he found it particularly comfortable, but because when he poked his head out of the crash he'd find his old friends waiting in front of him. He could imagine them laughing and laughing, cheering at his mangled body in the name of victory. Like it was some sort of stupid battle. Like they were kids and this was some dumb game, which is probably what they thought it was. The position he's bleeding out in reminds him a bit of when he was little, playing dead in Edd's backyard; taking and executing the role of the villain all too well.  
The memory is somehow more painful than the searing pain swimming through your arm and jaw.

 

 

He remembers the villian's demise, bloody and grotesque (like most games Edd made the group play.) It almost felt like the universe was trying to be subtle with him and failed. It's too funny that it'd end up 3 against one, again, one isolated and named "the bad guy" with no doubt. It's hard to believe those same bumbling kids had managed to kill him 20 years later.

...They did?

_Am I going to die?_

The thought sucked any remaining hesitance out of his body and he pushed up at the chunk of trash above him, taking in a gasping, choking breath; his entire body screaming in agony for oxygen. The air around him was smoldering and absolutely reeked of gasoline, smoke, and failure, but his lungs were nonetheless appreciative of the sentiment. Groaning one last time and decidedly kicking the rest of the robot off of him, he stumbled to his feet. He instantly regretted it, black spots covered his vision and made him feel like he would tip over, which wasn't the best thing to be feeling on a cliff. Instead, Tord took to buckling to his knees, softly panting and enjoying what occasional relief could be brought to his arm via colder winds.

 

The sun was setting, almost mocking Tord in the distance - high and mighty during the day, setting towards the horizon in a ball of flame later. It's hard to think earlier in the day he'd been just... waiting. Biding his time, playing small talk with Matt and Edd and waiting for his getaway. He was so sure, then. He thought he'd make it.

Based on the blood dripping down from his lips and nose, he did not "make it."

 

The only thing snapping him out of his trance was a muffled groan in the distance of a car, slowly approaching. Tord couldn't look.  
If it was Edd, Matt, or Tom, he'd probably just toss himself off the cliff to spare himself any embarrassment. Wincing, not just from pain anymore, Tord swiveled his head and made eye contact with his two pilots. Both wide eyed, paralyzed and taking in every gorey little detail of what remained of Tord's arm and face.

He turned back around ignoring the two's whispers and frantic shushing to each other. He vaguely heard a medical bag unzip from behind him, but most of what he heard was just pulsing blood in his ears.

He was going to kill them.  
_**He was going to kill them.**_

 

Every inch of his body burned and screamed; laying charred and bloody, and it was because of _them_.  
His arm - gone, surely, it was only a mangled block of flesh now - is ruined because of _them_.  
His face, bristling with every pump of blood and blow of wind, raw and loose - because of _them_.

 

He picked up a spare arm that flew loose from the robot, gears whirring in his mind.  
This could work. He... he could do this. He'd give them this pain. He'd show them it tenfold. His eyes strayed from the metal arm to the trio in the distance, hobbling away like rats returning to a sewer.  
He just had to go back into hiding for a bit. Let his wounds mend, his mind settle a bit...  
When he was ready, when he was armed, when every ounce of what love he had every felt for them had corrupted into blistering, unending _hate_...  
He would be back.

 

"Sir?" Patryk mumbled, approaching with Paul in tow. The latter seemed to be carrying a variety of bandages and medical supplies.  
They weren't totally incompetent, then.

Every small movement the bandage made felt like fire unleashed onto his nerves, all screaming in protest. Tord took it with a pained smile, biting down on a wad of cotton as the needle sewed up what flesh could be mended.  
It had to get worse before it got better. He'd suffer - so they would, too. What a giving friend he was.

Or. Ex-friend?

Maybe not _ex-friend_ \- the bumbling trio would never be rid of him, not really. Like the scars across Tord's face and limbs, he'd be there - as a ghost, as a nightmare, as a shadow above them pulling a gun to their heads.  
He'll be back.  
**_He will be._**

 

The very thought - like a twisted reunion - sends a wave of giddy up Tord's spine. He can only taste the faint ghost of what revenge will feel like, but it's shocking his whole body. Nothing tastes sweeter than needed revenge. Tord, in all his half-bled-out glory, is set into the back seat of the van with a wide, bloody smile on his face. His teeth, lips, and nose are stained with crimson, and he could not be prouder.

The more he hurts, the more they hurt, right? His blood was their blood tenfold. His next reunion with his 'friends', then, will be exciting. He's sure to have a few bones broken. He feels a bit giddy considering it.

In fact, Tord decides, licking dried blood from his lips, he's looking forward to it.


End file.
